


A Light to Guide You Home

by vasaris



Category: The Odyssey - Homer, The Sentinel
Genre: F/M, GFY, Hermes is a sassy bastard, Not Beta Read, Odysseus just wants to go home, Penelope is so done, Rough Trade July 2015, Telemachus is tired of this shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vasaris/pseuds/vasaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, don't you try and darling me."  His wife tapped a long, elegant finger against her temple.  "I didn't bond with an idiot and if you think I'm going to stand for this, you've got another thing coming, Guardian mine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light to Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Desertpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desertpoet/gifts).



> Written for the July 2016 'Little Black Dress' challenge.
> 
> Homer, meet the Sentinel; Enhanced Senses and Guide Gifts, meet Homer.
> 
> Art by the lovely Marlislash Gabs.

Odysseus clings to a floating timber, desperately trying to keep his head above water.  Above him the sky is a brilliant, burning blue that reminds him of home.  Apollo’s rays burn bright in the heavens, reminding him, here at the last, of Penelope’s eyes: beautiful, laughing, calm or raging – but always bright, always shining.  The roar of the whirlpool, the great maw Charybdis, grows ever stronger and the thought that he will never see them again cuts to his very soul.

“Oh, great Apollo, protector of those-who-lead,” he prays, “please keep her safe from those who would try to claim her.”

There is no way of knowing if he can be heard over Charybdis’ guttural bawl, but he can feel the pull of the current and knows he is not strong enough to fight it on his own.  Regret claws through his belly.  He left Ithaca with hundreds, none of whom will return.  Ten years in Menelaus’ war, only to be handed defeat due to Agamemnon’s pride and Achilles’ rage.  Then more upon the sea, for Poseidon’s fury.

His son will never know his face.  His wife, his beloved Penelope, will never know what has happened to him.  She will feel the bond they share thin and shatter.

Her heart will bleed, and he regrets that more than anything else in his long line of failures.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as the current takes a firmer hold, pulling him through the flotsam of his splintered ship. “Gods above, I am sorry.”

Pain rips though him as a battered piece of the mast crashes into his back.  He barely has time to take a breath as another piece of timber slams into his head, sending him straight to Morpheus’ black embrace.

 

A long series of clicks and whistles rouses him enough to gasp for breath. Beside him swims a sleek form he thinks he should recognize, that he should be able to name, but cannot.  Agony holds him in its vicious claws and he cannot quite think around the pain.  The sleek grey form seems to grin at him before ducking gently beneath his arm, helping him stay above the surface and somehow pulling him along.

The pain is almost unbearable, but he feels comforted and has no idea why.  There should be something, something about being rescued by this strange, friendly fish, but it floats away, beyond his reach. He closes his eyes and tries to control the pain, draining the cup in which it’s held until it no longer overflows.

Someone taught him that, but he cannot remember.

He is barely aware when another touch takes hold of him, a shining, golden voice sweeping across his hearing like a gentle wind.  He hears an outraged whistle, followed by pained scream.

Fear rouses him for a moment, pulling his awareness upward, and he sees a pod of fish – _dolphins_ , his mind whispers – chase his rescuer, a sleek and lovely creature of the same type away.

“Oleisia?”

The name slips from his lips as the pod takes hold of him, pulling him away from her comfort and toward that lulling, golden voice.  There’s something wrong, but he does not know what.  The closer he comes to that voice, the harder it is to hold that feeling and the less he cares.

“Ah, what is this you have found, my friends?” The words brush across his consciousness, cloud-soft and filled with wonder.  He forces his eyes open and sees a cloud of shining golden hair and eyes of soft amber.

 _Wrong_ , shouts a corner of his mind, but it is easily silenced by the honeyed song pouring from his vision’s sweetly curved mouth.  Tender hands guide him through the gentle roll of water until he rests upon warm, soft sand.  His pain fades to nothing as her hand brushes softly through his hair and he sighs with its cessation.

“Where –”

“Shhhhh,” the woman whispers.  “All will be well.”

“But…”

“Rest.”

He sleeps.

~*~

Penelope wakes with a barely restrained scream, her heart hammering like Hephaestus at his forge.  It would not do to rouse the household, and would be dangerous besides.  Odysseus has not yet returned from Menelaus’ disastrous war and rumors of his death have begun to circulate throughout Hellas. Adding his wife and bond-mate’s nightmares to the mix would not be remotely advisable.

But, oh, how Penelope wants to cry out her anger and despair.  In her dream they had been so close, she and Oleisia, close enough to touch her husband, close enough to pull him from the shrieking maw of utter disaster.  For a moment they’d seen his eyes open, hazed with pain as the usually laughing gaze had been, and Penelope’s heart had rejoiced.

Then he’d been taken from them, pulled away somewhere that they could not follow.  Penelope has no need of an oracle to tell her that the gods have once again been at work, keeping her Odysseus – her husband, her Guardian – from returning home to her.

Penelope glances out the high window.  The sky is light enough to excuse rising.

She throws the bedclothes aside and stands, crossing her bedchamber on silent feet.  An ewer of cool, scented water rests beside a low basin, and she pours a measure out and scrubs her face clear of tears.  Grief and despair are not her allies, not when Odysseus’ father, Laertes, has allowed himself to be taken into their grip.  He has allowed all who come to express condolence to remain within the palaces’ walls, never noticing the hot eyes that follow Penelope when she leaves the women’s quarters in order to conduct her business of the day.

The men who come are not interested in expressing condolences for Laertes’ grief.  They are here to seek a prize, and all but Laertes know it.

Penelope pulls a _chiton_ from a cedar press and dons it without the aid of the maids that Laertes insists upon assigning her.  It is the work of a moment to pull her hair up and away from her face and twist it into a messy knot at the back of her head.  She has work to do and no patience for the fussing of the women who surround her at her father-in-law’s request.

She heads to the kitchens on silent feet, startling Acantha, the dark-haired former slave who rules the kitchens with a fist of stone.

“You’re up early, mistress.” Acantha’s lips purse thoughtfully.  “Will you be heading to Tethys’ cove this morning?”

Penelope smiles appreciatively.

“Indeed I will,” she says softly.  “The Oracle may say that nothing will propitiate the anger of Great Poseidon, but Tethys still holds sway with Oceanus.”

“I think my Lady mistress underestimates her ability to sway the minds of those who cannot see reason,” says Acantha and Penelope laughs.  “But I can send a boy to wake those lazy sluts of yours and summon one of the guards.”

“You really shouldn’t call them that,” Penelope scolds. “They are well-born women appointed to attend me by the king’s father.”

“They’re about as useful as that lot of ugly louts as have taken up space in the court.”  Acantha bites her lip.  “Mistress, you should be careful of them, there isn’t a one of them as is trustworthy, or worthy of you, who is the Guide of our King.”

Penelope sighs.  “I know, Acantha, but I worry for _you_.  You speak like that in front of the wrong person, I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Mistress, I know.  I’ll be careful.”  The slave makes a small shooing motion.  “Go gather what you need to make a proper offering. I’ll see to it you’ve a proper entourage so the master won’t fuss at you.”

Penelope nods her thanks and gathers what she needs.

It is a ritual that she will repeat over and over again as time passes.

~*~

He wakes upon a golden shore, sunburnt and aching.  His head feels muzzy, like he has drunk too much… something.  Something… _sweet_?, he thinks, unsure of the word.  He can almost taste it, rich and aromatic upon his tongue, before the thought is gone, driven away by a song carried by the breeze.

He doesn’t understand the words, as muddled as he is, but they feel inviting and distract him from the suddenly unbearable itch of sand and salt upon his skin.  He rises unsteadily and limps up the shore to where a tall, golden gate stands open, leading to… he cannot think of the word, though he recognizes them as a place that plants grow, tended for their beauty or for their utility.

Here, it seems the goal was beauty and some sense of peace, for the… flowers are ones of surpassing loveliness and there are fountains (he thinks that’s the word) where water flows in a glory of light and beauty.  Beyond them, where he thinks he should find some kind of structure, lies the mouth of a cave.  Vines cling to it, veiling away the contents beyond, but it is from there the golden song issues, along with a sound that feels like it should be as familiar to him as his own heartbeat but does not.

He pauses at the gate, head throbbing.  Something is wrong.

The sound behind the song is the first almost-familiar thing since he opened his eyes.  He does not know where he is.  He does not know who he is.  The only thing that he does know is that this is not where he belongs.  There is something, somewhere, some _one_ that he aches for, but he can put a name to none of it.

Frowning, he stumbles up the path, barely noticing when a thousand, bright-hued butterflies startle, taking flight on iridescent wings.  He passes through the sheltering curtain of vines to find the source of song and sound.

His first impression is one of gold and light.  An opening high above throws a wide circle of brilliant sunlight around a woman who seems made of gold and ivory.  Her hair seems spun of Helios’ golden halo, her song of bright-Apollo’s glory.  Her pale skin seems to glow with its own light as her golden shuttle moves with rhythmic speed through the warp of her loom.

She looks up at him, a tentative smile in pale-amber eyes, hands stilling as he approaches.

He frowns at her as she lifts a hand to touch him.

“No.”

The word is rough and guttural, exploding out from him as he takes a hurried step back.  It is wrong, _she_ is wrong.  The world swirls around him and he sways, feeling her unwanted touch on his arm.  Something in his head cracks, like pottery shattering against marble floors.  For a moment the world explodes – light flaring like oil thrown upon a bonfire, the gentle breeze shrieking warning against his ear, her hand a glove of spikes against his skin and the scent-taste of her putrid, like fish rotting in the sun.

“Rest,” she says and it is like the roar of a great, devouring maw.  “Sleep.”

He collapses, falling into a great, welcoming abyss of dark silence.

~

He wakes upon a golden shore, sunburnt and aching.  His head feels muzzy – like he’s drunk too much wine or gotten into an ill-advised brawl.  He sits up and squints at the sun.  It’s late morning and there should be the men in camp.

He frowns, looking around.  The beach is unfamiliar and something is _wrong_.  He’s not sure what it is, other than that this is not where he should be.  His head aches as he tries to think, tries to remember where he is – remember who he is.  He pushes himself to his feet and follows the sound of a sweet song through a garden and to an odd, brightly lit cave.

Pale-amber eyes meet his as he crosses the threshold, unknown and oddly familiar.

He shakes his head.

“No.”

~

He wakes upon a golden shore.

He wakes.

He wakes.

He wakes _._

~*~

“Quit being so foolish,” says Eurymachus, frustrated by her obstinance.  “Odysseus is dead.  You cannot remain widowed forever.”

Penelope considers the nobleman from where she sits, veiled, upon Ithaca’s golden throne.

“He’s not dead.”  Her bond to Odysseus is still strong, if strangely dark.  It has not withered and is not broken, though every day another shadow of weaves through it, absorbing and deflecting her attempts to use it.

“If he’s not dead, then he has abandoned you, my Queen,” cries another of the men who crowd her halls.

“You think my King, cunning Odysseus, is so fickle?”  She allows her voice to swell, ever so faintly with her gift.  “Think you that the only King to defy Menelaus’ gods’-cursed quest to retrieve bright Helen from her gods-bonded Guardian, would be so dishonorable?  It is _he_ who ensured that many of our warriors would not be wasted upon Ilium’s bright walls!  It is _he_ who fulfilled his oath without surrendering the blood of Ithaca to Mycenae’s lust and greed.  I will not hear such speech against my lord and King any in these halls.”

“It has been ten years,” roars Antinous.  “Even great Menelaus, in his golden halls, acknowledges the truth of the matter, woman!  Grant it and accept my suit for your hand, and be grateful that there is any man willing to take you at all.”

“I would not accept your suit were you the last man in all of Hellas,” says Penelope, resting cupped hands upon her lap and deliberately relaxing her fingers.  “For you are nothing but a lout and a boor and unworthy of the affection of the lowest slave – which is why none will have you.”

“My queen,” says Eurymachus. “Please.”

“Please what?” Penelope fixes him with a burning stare that he can apparently feel from beyond the veil that obscures her features.  “Please concede?  Please submit?  Please behave like a cowed and properly dutiful woman?”

He gawps at her like a stunned fish pulled unexpectedly from Oceanus’ great depths. 

“Odysseus, King of Ithaca is not dead.”

“Prove it,” hisses Antinous.  “Prove to us that he is alive and trying to make his way home.”

“I have no need to prove it.  I am Ithaca’s Queen and I declare it so.”

“You have no power here without him,” says Eurymachus.  “If he is dead, your words hold all the weight of a feather.”

“If he is dead, then Telemachus is King – and I would _still_ rule in his stead, as he searches for knowledge of his father’s whereabouts.”  She allows her amusement to infuse her voice.  “And your words would still be naught but a fart in a stiff wind – noisome, but quickly gone.”

“Your majesty, I do not think you understand the reality of your situation.”  Eurymachus sweeps a hand out, gesturing to himself and the men who have taken up residence in the Palace over the years, for Laertes has not had the heart to dislodge them.  “You will take one of us as your husband, you really have no choice.”

“Are you threatening me, Eurymachus?” Penelope asks idly, lacing her fingers together.

“Ithaca needs guidance, which you, as a woman, are unsuited to give.  If you do not choose a husband, we will choose one for you, and give the kingdom what it deserves.”

“I see,” she says softly.  “You waited for my son to leave – so much easier if you present him with a new father once he returns, I suppose.”

“He’s a good lad,” says Eurymachus, words sweet and tone false.  “But Telemachus is not ready to rule. We are tired of waiting upon a man who is dead – or who has forgotten or abandoned us.”

Penelope hesitates, as though considering his words.  She supposes that another woman, a more foolish woman, might take his words to heart.  Penelope loves her son with a ferocity that cannot be measured in lives or time.  She would lay waste to cities for Telemachus, just as she would for her Guardian.  She gazes around the room, noting of each of her suitors and taking the barest sips of their thoughts and emotions.  A few taste of a genuine desire to court her – two in sincere earnest, for they seem to care for her as a person – but on the whole the room reeks of conspiracy.  It makes no _sense._

“I see,” she says.  “I will have to think on your words.”

“Do that, your majesty.” Eurymachus’ smirk is victorious.  “Perhaps we should reconvene in a few days?”

“We will gather again when I have made a decision,” says Penelope.  “And not before.”

Her words are met with raucous laughter as she rises from Ithaca’s golden throne.  It is, she thinks, as well that they believe that they have the upper hand, that because she is a woman she is weak or indecisive.

~

Penelope returns to her rooms amidst the flutter of her handmaidens.

“Lady Penelope,” says Melantho as Penelope removes her veil.  “Will you take a husband from the men that court you?  Eurymachus seems wise and very handsome.”

Penelope turns aside, carefully folding the sheer fabric and hiding her expression.  There’s an avarice in Melantho’s seemingly careless question and Penelope cannot afford for her handmaidens to see the pain and disappointment she feels whenever they gather to ‘gossip’.

“Oh, no, not him!  He is weak and vain – not at all a proper match for our lady,” says Corella.  “Surely she will choose Antinous, who is a great warrior, like the king was.”

“I have made no decisions as of yet,” says Penelope.  “Although Antinous is a drunkard and a lout, and I would not willingly choose him at all, Corella.”

The girl bites her lip.

“My lady, I am sure that he has wisdom.  He’s strong, a fighter of renown, like the king!”

“Who are you trying to convince?” asks Penelope.  “No matter.  I’m going to go to Tethys’ cove and make an offering to her and Oceanus.”

“What, again?” Melantho gives her a sour look.  “What possible purpose can that serve, my lady?  You make offerings to them every day and they have never yet answered you.”

“Odysseus isn’t dead,” says Penelope, calmly.  “And it’s my duty to do whatever I can to guide him home.”

“He’s gone, my Lady.  Surely you can accept that.”  Melantho’s voice is soft and pleading.  “It is but folly to hang on to the ghost of a dead man.”

Penelope narrows her eyes.

“A visit to the Temple seems to be in order as well,” she says and all the women groan.  “To give thanks to Hera for my marriage and for the strength to stay true to it.”

“My lady –”

“Offerings to Athene, Apollo, and Hermes are called for, I think.”  Penelope turns, catching the eye of one of the slaves.  “Send a runner down to the temple and let them know I’m coming.”

“Yes, Mistress,” says the girl, making quick obeisance, before fleeing the room.

“My Lady,” sighs Melantho.  “You just promised to give fair consideration to your suitors, for the sake of all of Ithaca?”

“All the more reason to consult the gods. Surely Hera, Goddess of Marriage would have an interest in what it is you believe that I should be doing.  And Zeus, King of the gods and _god of kings._ ”

“Well, of course,” says Melantho.  “It is just that surely the gods would not disapprove…”

“I haven’t the hubris to assume I know the will of the gods.”  Melantho’s mouth thins at the rebuke.  “Corella, please ask that a bath be prepared.  It would be best to purify ourselves before going down.”

“Oh, Lady Penelope, it would take so long if we were all to do so, it would be nightfall before you could begin!”

“True.  Perhaps only one or two of you would care to accompany me?”

Melantho’s face twists oddly, clearly torn between wanting to come and see what Penelope will experience at the Temple and clearly not wanting to deal with cleansing herself and approaching the Gods from a place of piety.

“I’d be glad to accompany you,” says Acacia with a faint blush.  Of all of her handmaidens, she is the youngest and most sincere.  Melantho’s mouth twists in a bitter curl before smoothing out to a pleased smile.

“What a marvelous idea,” she says.  “I can speak to the guard and make sure that a litter is made ready for you.”

Penelope raises her brows in polite surprise.

“There is no need for such pomp, Melantho.  It’s just a visit to the shrines.  Our feet will do well enough.  Far better to approach in humility when one is a supplicant.”

“I – suppose that such must be so, my Lady.”

“Of course it is.”  Penelope holds out a hand to Acacia.  “Come, my dear.  We will have a busy day.”

“Of course my lady.  Thank you for your kindness.”

Sincerity pours off of young Acacia and Penelope finds herself smiling, despite everything.

~

The walk down the hill and into the city is pleasant and Acacia, once away from the rest of her handmaids, proves to be an entertaining companion.  She is young, yes, but she is very observant – and her mind is sharp and incisive.

They pass the columns that mark the entrance of Ithaca’s shining shrine to the Olympians, Acacia taking hold of the sacrificial goat’s halter.  They leave their guards, approaching the elderly priestess that maintains the small temple with her husband. 

“Your majesty,” says the Priestess, brown eyes alight with humor and intelligence. “Your presence today is somewhat unexpected.

“Lady Desma,” Penelope bows in proper reverence.  “I have come to seek guidance.”

The priestess laughs, leading them inward, away from prying eyes and listening ears, and into the serene hush of the Gods’ power as they cross onto properly sanctified ground.  Penelope feels something within herself ease for the first time in months, perhaps even years, and wonders why she has not made it a practice to visit more often.

“Guidance?  A lovely irony, young Penelope.”

“Hardly young,” says Penelope.  “I haven’t been that since my husband left to join Menelaus on his foolish quest.”

“Ah, but an irony still.”

Penelope swallows a laugh as Acacia hands over the leads to the goat.  “Guides seeking guidance, it’s so unexpected.”

Desma’s eyes slide to Acacia.  “And you, child?”

The girl hesitates, head bowed.

“I am come to seek guidance, also.” She looks up.  “I… see and hear many things, but I do not know which ones to share.”

Penelope frowns as Desma lifts Acacia’s veil to stare into her eyes.

“Ah, child,” says Desma.  “Why have you not spoken to your queen?”

Acacia blushes.

“My lady is already bonded – I did not wish her to think that I was yet another suitor who seeks for her hand.”

“Foolish,” Desma snorts.  “You sought her in order to follow her, didn’t you?”

“You’re a Guardian?” Penelope lifts her veil.  “My dear, why didn’t you say something?”

“I couldn’t, not without Melantho hearing.  And I didn’t want you to think that I –”

“—that you were trying to supplant my husband and your king?”

Acacia nods.

“You don’t trust us. It shows that you’re as wise as guides are supposed to be.  Yet you _must_ be more wary of Melantho.”  Acacia’s nose wrinkles.  “She seeks the beds of the men she thinks most likely to win you, hoping to gain their favor. They offer her gifts hoping that she’ll sway you, or give them information about you.”

“Do they?”

“They approach all of your maids and many of the servants and slaves, my Lady.” Acacia hunches in upon herself.  “Much of your household is compromised. Lord Laertes doesn’t believe the King is alive.  Lord Eurymachus is often in his company, complaining about how you cling to your husband’s power, saying that you will withhold it from Telemachus in order to rule.”

“That’s absurd,” says Penelope.

“Doubtless,” says Desma, “it is what he himself would do.”

Acacia nods.  “And it makes Lord Laertes’ angry – that you would deprive his grandson and subject his household to the entire mess that it is in.”

“Does he think that if I marry, Telemachus will be given the throne?”

“Lord Eurymachus has promised him that your son will be placed on the throne as soon as he returns from his travels, provided that you accept Eurymachus as your husband.”  Acacia’s voice fills with disgust.  “And Laertes _believes_ him.”

Penelope stands silent for a moment and then turns toward the altar, approaching it with rage and humility.  She kneels before it, resting her forehead upon the cool marble that lies before the altar-stone and waits for the scream of the goat and the iron-tang of fresh, hot blood to fill the air.  With them, she raises her face and hands to the sky in supplication, barely flinching as offal and oil begin to burn.

“O, great Zeus, mighty King, guardian of hospitality and keeper of oaths, hear my cry!  My house is overrun with strangers who cleave not to the rules of welcome, and cast lies like nets upon the water, that Odysseus, rightful King of Ithaca, will be deprived of his wealth and his throne.  I know not where he lies, nor what travails bar him from home, but I beg thee, O King of Heaven, for his return!

“O, white-armed Hera, great Queen, patroness of marriage and guardian of bonds, hear my plea!  My husband, my bondmate and Guardian, is lost and far from home.  Someone, somewhere wishes to keep him from me.  Our Bond is shadowed and dark, but not broken or denied.  I beg thee, O Queen of bright Olympus, to restore it and my bondmate to me!

She entreats the Olympians, imploring each for Odysseus’ safe return.  As she finishes her final pleas to Apollo and Athene, the air fills with a clear, golden light.  With it comes the sound of crackling thunder and crowing peacocks, of thrumming looms and delicate lyres.  Desma and her husband both fall to their knees, beatific in ecstasy.

Penelope presses her forehead to the marble slab, tears flowing as her penned emotions burst forth, the abscess of them lanced in the glimmering god-light.

“Your prayers are heard,” says Cenon, Desma’s husband, as the light fades.

“I think she understood that.” Desma’s expression is wry.

“I think so, yes,” says Penelope, sitting up.  “I must have faith.”

“Indeed you must.”  Cenon stands and comes forward, offering her a hand up.  “My lady queen, it is time that you remember who you are.”

Penelope places her hand in his, allowing him to help her stand.  “Lord Cenon?”

“You are a guide-queen, majesty, not merely a Queen who is a Guide.”  Black eyes twinkle at her from his wrinkle-lined face.  “Your suitors may have forgotten this, but we, your people, have not.  Perhaps it is time for you to remind them that you were born to lead.”

Feeling lighthearted for the first time in years, Penelope throws back her head and _laughs_.

~*~

He wakes upon a golden shore, sun-warmed and comfortable.  A faint prickle of fur and whiskers prods at his cheek before a long, warm weight settles upon his chest.

“Gelasius,” he says before thinking, raising a hand to stroke the furry creature that has taken up residence above his heart.  Odysseus opens his eyes for the first time in far too many days to count, and knows who he is.  The grey-brown otter sitting upon his ribs chortles merrily and licks his nose.

Odysseus sits up carefully, cradling his impossible companion to his chest.  His last clear memory is of the roaring maw of Charybdis and the determined eyes of Oleisia, the spirited dolphin that claims his wife as her human.

He had been injured – he remembers that.  He would never have been able to make it to a friendly shore on his own.  Odysseus has little doubt that Oleisia would have dragged him from the arms of the great whirlpool and to a safe-enough harbor, but she would have waited to see him wake.  He can see dolphins cavorting in the bay, but none have Oleisia’s grace nor her tell-tale markings.

Gelasius chitters at him, patting his chest and struggling slightly, so Odysseus sets the otter on the sand, where it sits up and makes odd little disgusted faces at the dolphins in the bay.

“Not a fan of yon creatures?” asks Odysseus.  The otter looks at him and makes a distinct sound of revulsion, making Odysseus laugh.  “Well enough!  Where are we?”

Gelasius shudders, hopping over to rest his small head on Odysseus’ thigh, begging for skritches.  Odysseus obliges him, reaching for his bond with Penelope to center himself and scan the island with his senses.  He shivers when he touches it.  The bond is as whole and as healthy as it has ever been – he can feel her on the other end of it, yet it is layered and shot through with shadow, as though someone had tried to _hide_ the bond from him.  It aches, like a muscle stretched too far and then bludgeoned with a sword too dull to cut.

Odysseus buries his hand in Gelasius’ fur, using his spirit-animal’s corporeal form to steady himself as he turns his mind within instead of without.  Inky darkness seems to spread throughout his mind, in strange little streams and eddies, and he knows that it should not be there.

Distantly, he feels Gelasius crawl into his lap, settling comfortably under the petting hand and making pleased little noises – just enough to keep him anchored in the here-and-now but not enough to distract as he tugs on each tendril, revealing the things hidden beneath.

_Penelope stared down at Menelaus’ missive, her dark eyes shining with anger._

“ _Is he mad?” Penelope asked, incredulous.  "Does he seriously think that you're going to go to war because Helen finally found a Guardian?"_

_"Darling --"_

_"Oh, don't you try and darling me."  His wife tapped a long, elegant finger against her temple.  "I didn't bond with an idiot and if you think I'm going to stand for this, you've got another thing coming,_ Guardian mine _."_

Odysseus laughs at the memory and the darkness begins to burn away.    He shouldn’t, he knows, because the rage that had carried them to Menelaus’ court had stripped the Achaean forces of their greatest weapons, but Gods, it had been magnificent.

 _“What do you think you are_ doing _, Menelaus?” His wife’s voice was rich with power, and he could see the men of Menelaus’ court begin to tremble in fear.  Penelope lifted her veil, exposing a terrible beauty that well-rivalled that of her cousin, Helen.  “You thought in your arrogance that you could claim a Guide and force her to bond with you.  You believed that because she is a woman, she would bend and she would break.  That she would call Guardians to you and to your court and lead them at your command.”_

 _“She is_ mine,” _Menelaus snarled.  “She belongs to_ me. _”_

 _“She is a Guide,” said Penelope, “and by divine law, Guides belong to none but themselves.  Neither you nor her father had the right to force marriage upon her, and you_ know _that the gods do not recognize it.  Have your people not_ suffered, _Menelaus?  Have you not seen disaster upon ruin, scion of Atreus?  Let her go – let her go and beg the forgiveness of the gods.”_

_“I will not!  Paris of Troy has stolen what rightfully belongs to me and I will have her back, regardless of the cost!”_

_“You will fail.” Penelope’s voice rolled out like thunder, power crackling like lightning.  “You wish to break what the gods have joined.  No Guide who respects the Law will follow you.  They will lead no Guardians for your cause, they will rally no troops for your aid. Only a rogue would come to your banner.”_

_“Achilles has already agreed,” Menelaus mocked._

_“And so will meet his doom, and his Guardians with him.”  Penelope radiated the light of Apollo, the light of prophesy – the light that always guided him home to her arms. “You have my husband’s oath – an oath he should never have taken.  I will not prevent him from following you.  But you will have no other Guardian of Ithaca, nor guide.”_

_“Nor man, nor beast,” said Odysseus.  “Unless they have volunteered, in hopes of glory.  I will not sacrifice my people for your injustice, Menelaus.”_

_“You promised me!”_

_“I had not bonded yet.  I am a Guardian, Menelaus, but my guide belongs to herself – and I belong to her.” Odysseus smiled.  “Penelope is my Guide._ She _is the one who leads, Menelaus.  It is her word that is law, not mine.  It is her honor alone that keeps her from forbidding me to go.”_

_“You will pay for this!” Menelaus raged at Penelope._

_“Perhaps I will,” said Penelope, light fading around her as she drew her power back within her skin.  She seemed to shrink and become ordinary, but Odysseus could feel it thrumming, the power of a guide-queen in all of its radiant glory.  “But so will you.  You cannot force a Guide to go to war, Menelaus, unless you want Apollo’s rage ignited around you – and none but Achilles will take up your standard.  Abandon your quest.”_

_“I will not.”_

_“Then you are a fool.” Penelope placed a kiss on Odysseus’ cheek before drawing her veil.  “Have a care, husband, not to offend any gods, else your return home will be much delayed.”_

_“I make no promises, wife.”_

His Guide had given him clear and explicit instructions.  In retrospect, Odysseus rather wishes he had followed them.  Memory after memory of his wife and guide unfurls as the dark, noisome tendrils burn away.  The memory of Penelope’s sent, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin – it all rises within him, overwhelming the concealing darkness with radiant light.

A low throbbing begins in his head and the inky tendrils begin fighting back.

“Why do you resist so, my love?  Why do you refuse to forget?”  The voice is sweet and familiar.  Flashes of thousands of days crash over him as he is pulled roughly from his meditations.  “You could be happy here, my Anstice.  Just _let her go_.  She is no one and nothing.  I can offer you everything, wealth, immortality –”

Odysseus opens his eyes to find a woman standing near, gold-amber eyes studying him with an inhuman _want._   Gelasius snarls as Odysseus _moves_.  He is on her before she can blink, pinning her to the hot sand in a vicious parody of sexual play.

“My name is _Odysseus_.  Odysseus – bonded Guardian of Penelope, guide-queen of Ithaca.” His hand fists in shining, golden locks.  “And you – whoever you are – are nothing.”

“Nothing?” She arches against him, rubbing her soft, perfect body along his and he forces himself not to recoil from her touch.  “I am the woman who is _here_ , my Anstice.  I am the goddess who would offer you everything.”

“Everything?” He twists his hand, causing her to cry out in pain.  “You would offer me a ship and safe passage home?  Can you resurrect my men and return them to their loved ones?”

“Please,” she whispers.  “Those things are beyond my power – but if you would just let her go, if you would just let me in, Anstice, I can offer you nectar and ambrosia, a life without want or care.”

Odysseus shoves himself away, cursing.  “I should break your foul neck.  There is no God who would blame me.”

The woman lies still, staring up at him with pleading, wanting, _inhuman_ eyes and he can feel her power slide over his skin like a profane net.

“I am Calypso, daughter of Atlas, and I will not be denied!” Perfect pink lips curl back over pearlescent teeth.  “You _will_ be mine, _Anstice_.  You will accept me and the name I give you.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dear, but that won’t be happening at any point in this particular timeline.” A young man walks toward them from a trail that leads toward a tall, golden gate.  “You’ve had quite enough playtime, Calypso and your deeds have not gone unnoticed.”

“Hermes.”

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” the messenger-God says cheerfully.  “Your gardens are absolutely lovely and I’m sure Demeter would adore getting a look at them.  You should invite her over some time for tea.  Wait, do you have tea?  I’ve been off visiting the dragon-gods in Chi’in for the last few years, they’re positively delightful company once you get to know them.  Athene would like them, they’re very wise, you know.”

“Lord Hermes?”

“Oh, Odysseus!  Yes.  Right.  So, Calypso, dear, you know the law as well as I do. We’re not supposed to interfere with Guardians and Guides – unless they ask us, of course, in which case we’re allowed to meddle all we want, well, within reason.  Helios has already told Apollo that your pet dolphins actually _stole_ Odysseus from his Guide’s spirit animal and he is not pleased about that, oh, not at all.” Hermes makes a face.  “And Hera is just this side of _flaming pissed_ about your direct interference in a bond that she personally blessed – I don’t know if you remember, grandson, but she was there at your wedding and was quite impressed with how well you and Penelope did you duty by her.”

Odysseus gapes.  “She _was_?”

“Apollo and Athene asked her to go.  It’s not every day that a Guardian-king and a Guide-queen bond.  That whole mess in Ilium would have ended quick-smart if it hadn’t taken Hector’s death to shove Andromache past the tipping point.” Hermes shakes his head.  “But that’s neither here nor there.  Someone has _finally_ asked the right people for assistance and Zeus himself is quite irritated with you, Calypso, if not as much as Hera.  You do not interfere with his anointed kings, either.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Calypso snaps from where she’s seated on the sand.  “If he took a bonded Guardian –”

“He’s never taken a bonded Guardian,” Hermes tells her soberly.  “Granted he doesn’t have a great deal of respect for _anyone’s_ marriage vows, but he does respect the Bond, because the Fates are above us all.  And honestly, as angry as Hera gets about violated marriage vows, do you _really_ want to experience her response to a broken or damaged Bond?”

Calypso flinches.

“Well, neither does Zeus.  So you’re going to fix whatever it is you’ve done and you’re going to let my great-grandson go.”  Hermes’ smile gleams with feral regard.  “Because now that I’m _here_ and not making nice with other pantheons, you’d best believe that _I’ve_ noticed what you’re doing with my kin.”

“Lord Hermes,” Calypso stands.  “I…”

“Oh, I know that you started with _orders._   I plan on taking it up with Poseidon.” Hermes turns his glare to Odysseus.  “And you’re a moron.  No matter that Apollo could – and did – fix the whole thing when Poseidon asked, but announcing that you’d gotten the best of Polyphemus while you were _on the sea_ was pure hubris, grandson.  I know you’re not actually an idiot.”

Odysseus flushes brightly.  “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Fate,” says Hermes philosophically, eyes tracking Gelasius as the otter noses up to him.  He bends picks Gelasius up, scratching the chortling otter’s ears. “Probably.  But at this point it’s all getting kind of ridiculous.”

Calypso scowls, rising to her feet.

“I found him, I should be able to keep him.”

Gelasius hisses.

“You took him directly from a manifestation of his Guide’s spirit animal.  That’s not finding him.”

“He would have died if I hadn’t intervened.”

“That’s possible, dear, but I think not.  I doubt that Athene would have allowed one of her Guardians to die in such an ignominious way.  Not when he was trying to get home to his Guide.”

“Fine.” Golden-amber eyes fix on him for a moment and the layer of ink-black threads shrivel and fade away.  Odysseus sways as his sense of Penelope broadens from a bare trickle to an expanse wider than the sea.  He feels it when Penelope drops to her knees in shock.

 _Wife._ He sends across the bond.

 _Idiot_ , she sends back, relief so prominent in her mind that the sensation is almost like orgasm.  _Come home._

 _I’m working on that._   He looks at Hermes.  “How am I meant to get home?”

“Your journey is part of your fate,” Hermes says.  “So there’s not much I can do to speed that, no matter how much I’d like to.”

“I can’t just _walk_ to Ithaca.”

“So it’s not enough that I have to release him?  I have to help him get home, too?”  Calypso glares.  “That’s just unfair.”

“Consider it part of your penance, dear.”

Her lips twist.

“There’s wood on the far side of the island.  He could build a raft.”

“A _raft?_ ” Odysseus stares at them.  “On the _open water?_   Are you mad?”

“Hmmm,” says Hermes.  “Back in a mo.”

“What did that even _mean?_ ” asks Odysseus.

“You’re asking me?” Calypso gives him a sardonic smile.  “He’s your great-grandfather.”

“I can still kill you.” Odysseus folds his arms over his chest.  “It doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea.”

“Kill me, and I won’t provide you material for a sail.” Calypso’s lips curve into something not quite resembling a smile.  “You should be grateful that I’m willing to part with anything at all.”

“Grateful?”

“I saved your life, _Odysseus,_ ” she spits.  “I offered you everything.  Over and over and over, I offered you a contentment that would last for eternity.  And you reject it all for a mortal woman who is meaningless in the flow of time.  Going back to her will only result in your death.”

Gelasius bounds over to him and Odysseus laughs at his spirit-animal’s happy chittering.

“Lady Calypso, I do thank you for my life – for every moment that I will be able to spend with my Penelope when I return home.”  He stares into those golden-amber eyes and offers a true smile.  “But I’m mortal.  Life is challenge.  Life is change and pain and failure and triumph.  What you offer... I’m sorry.  I’ll take an ending that has both suffering and joy over an eternity of unchanging _contentment_ , especially if it means that I have Penelope at my side.”

Her eyes close, mouth thinning in an odd, inexplicable pain.

“Mortality means so much?”

“Without death,” says Odysseus, “what is the purpose of life?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Guardians,” says Hermes, appearing at Odysseus’ side.  “No wonder Athene loves you all so much.”

Odysseus snorts.

“Hey, don’t knock wisdom.  It’s the thing that separates mortals from the rest of us – _you_ learn from your mistakes,” Hermes smiles wryly.

Odysseus shakes his head.

“Anyway, I thought that you might like this,” says Hermes, handing him an odd metal box.  “Hephaestus says that they’re some of the best tools he’s ever made.  If you’re going to build a boat, I thought they might be useful.”

“Did you steal those?” asks Odysseus, bemused.

“Borrowed!  I just borrowed them and Hephaestus likes me, so he probably won’t punish you for them being in your possession.  And anyway, they were just taking up storage space, because he’s long since made better and he never uses these.”

“You want me to use tools you stole from Hephaestus?”

“Borrowed.”

“Right.”  He turns to Calypso.  “So, I’m going to go to the other side of the island and work on making some kind of vessel that will get me home.  With tools purloined from the God of Fire and Forge.”

“Borrowed!” protested Hermes.  “And I’ll help you.  I can’t hurry your trip, but I’m at least a little bit handy with vessels and vehicles of any kind.”

Calypso sighs.  “I’ll bring sufficient silks for a sail.”

“Don’t forget food and drink,” says Hermes.  “Humans have to eat, when you’re not sustaining them purely on power.”

“Fine,” says Calypso.  “But you’re not going to have your project done tomorrow, so I think there will be some time for me to deal with that.”

“True,” says Hermes.  “Oh, and you know, if you’re interested in companionship, I’m going to be here for a while.”

Calypso and Odysseus both turn to stare at the young god.

“What?  It’s not like _I’m_ currently married, or anything.”

~*~

“Are you alright?” asks Acacia as Penelope falls to her knees, the sense of Odysseus flowing through her like a storm-surge.  The ecstatic relief leaves Penelope warm and languorous.

 _Wife._ Her Guardian’s humor is like a warm caress.

 _Idiot._   She laughs, brokenly.  _Come home._

 _I’m working on that,_ and with that she can feel his attention shift.  She has maintained for years that he was alive, but having the full, open sense of him is beyond price.

She looks up to see Melantho staring at her and she smiles wanly.

“I’m fine, Acacia,” says Penelope.  “It’s just the heat.”

Acacia frowns slightly, knowing the lie for what it is but unwilling to contest it.  Melantho has been angry since their return from the Temple.  The change in dynamic between Penelope and Acacia has set the rest of Penelope’s handmaidens into a frenzy of sycophantic behavior meant to curry her favor.

“Perhaps my lady would like us to order a cool bath?” says Melantho.

Penelope shakes her head.  “It sounds like a wonderful idea, but there is too much for me to do.”

“My queen,” says Corella with an unctuous bow.  “You take far too much upon yourself.  Surely there is no need to spend so much time in the city.”

“How am I to make the best decision for Ithaca if I do not speak to its people?” Penelope keeps her voice reasonable and slightly naïve, adding only a touch of persuasive power. “Can’t you understand?  I’ve been asked to violate a bond blessed by the Gods.”

“I suppose…,” says Corella.

“What kind of bond can there be with a dead man?” Melantho demands, breaking the fragile moment of understanding. “The king is undoubtedly dead!  Why will you not see reason and do what’s best for us all?”

The room falls silent at Melthano’s outburst and Penelope’s hold upon her temper shatters like so much thrown crockery.

“Know your _place_ ,” Penelope hisses.  “You are not my husband, my priest, or my conscience.  You’re just conniving, grasping little girl placed in my service to spy and attempt to control me.  You are not and have never been my confidant or my _friend._ ”

Melantho stumbles back as Penelope surges to her feet, anger pouring off of her in a flood.

“Your majesty, I meant no harm!”

“Did you not?” asks Penelope.  “ _Do_ you not?  What possible gain is there for you if I wed and my son takes the throne?  There is not much place in the life of a mere _lady_ for so many handmaidens.  Your position in court would be much reduced.  No, you are paid by someone else to try and persuade me to their wishes.”

“I only wish you to be happy, majesty,” says Melantho, pale as sun bleached bone.  “Please.”

“Interested in the pleasure of others,” says Penelope.  “It’s _such_ a character trait of yours.”

Her rage flares into a steady pulsing flame within her, as bright as the sun and as hot as the rays that have hammered Ithaca relentlessly for the last days.

“My lady,” murmurs Acacia.

“I’m going down into the city,” says Penelope.

“That sounds wonderful!” says Corella.

“You’re not invited,” says Penelope, sharply pointed.  “You’re no better than _she_ is.  I don’t want to see either one of you.”

“My queen –”

“ _Get out_.” Penelope allows her voice its full force, causing all but Acacia to flee the room.

“My _queen_ ,” says Acacia in an impossibly low, throbbing voice. Acacia kneels before her, mouth open slightly as she takes slow, deep breaths, her focus intent.

The door opens and one after another, guards and servants who should not even be in this wing of the palace enter the room, each dropping to their knees, those words upon their lips, their eyes and very breaths intent upon her.  Penelope finds herself walking unveiled among them, offering each a small touch or caress.  There are only twelve of them, but they are Guardians and they are _hers._

“Command us, my queen” says one of the guards, a boy so painfully young that her heart hurts.

“There are others,” she says.  She can feel them stirring throughout the city and out into the countryside.  “Find them.  Bring them to me.”

“My queen,” says the boy, standing.  His eyes tray to Acacia, who nods gently and four others rise to accompany them.

“The temple,” says Acacia.

“Majesty,” says a serving boy – no, a _slave_ and by the Gods that is an _anathema_ – of no more than ten. “Please.”

“Bring Acantha to me,” she says softly.  “The rest of you should return to your duties, but report anything you find important to Acacia.  Try not to bring attention to yourselves.”

“My queen,” they say, almost as one, rising to slip away one by one.

Acacia remains upon her knees, a smile playing upon her lips.

“Melantho is already weeping upon Eurymachus’ shoulder at your injustice,” says Acacia.  “Corella has opted to pleasure Antinous.  Perhaps she thinks that he will not beat her if she tells him while his seed stains her tongue.”

“I don’t think I needed to know that,” says Penelope, making a face.

“I certainly didn’t, but Corella rarely thinks with her mind.” Acacia’s eyes go distant.  “That’s… interesting.  Eurymachus is telling Melantho that your words don’t matter – word is coming soon that will force your hand, and once he has taken the throne she needn’t worry about you ever again.”

“Of course she won’t,” says Penelope.  “She wouldn’t survive me by more than an hour.”

“I’m glad you understand that,” says Acacia, rising to her feet.

“My queen,” says the boy from the door.  “I have brought you Acantha, as you requested.”

“My queen,” says Acantha, entering the room on silent feet.  Suddenly a grin spreads across her lips.  “It took you long enough.”

Penelope rolls her eyes.  “Why did I free you again?”

“Because you realized that you were safer paying me than keeping me in bondage?”

“Sure, that’s it.” Penelope sighs.

“You’re a guide,” says Acacia.

“Indeed I am,” says Acantha.  “Not like our Queen, but enough to keep the kitchens under control.  Not that I’d need to if her majesty would exert herself once in a while.”

“I can still have you beaten.”

“No you can’t, the kitchens would fall apart.”

Penelope laughs softly.  “Fine, fine, you’re right and have been all along.  I should have been doing more – we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“No,” says Acantha.  “It’d be a worse one, because you’d be dead, and Telemachus with you.  Those louts that Laertes let into the palace would prefer to have a marginally legitimate claim to your husband’s throne, but they’d be content enough without it.”

“That cannot be permitted,” says Acacia.

“What, you think we’ve done nothing these past years, young Guardian?” Acantha stares hard at Acacia.  “Just because our queen hasn’t chosen to form a proper court doesn’t mean that we’ve been idle in her defense.”

“I can’t form a proper court without Odysseus,” snaps Penelope.  “And I couldn’t do it while I was pregnant.”

“Not true,” says Acantha.  “Or what do you think you’re doing right now?  You’re calling us to you, belling four battle – when you’re done, you’ll have a proper court and will lead us as you always should have done.”

Penelope throws up her hands.  It’s an old argument and one she knows she can’t win, since Acantha is right.

“Now, my queen, what do you require?”

“You’re in contact with the other guides of Ithaca, are you not?”

“All three others?  I am, indeed.”

“Gather them.” Penelope hugs herself.  “Not tonight, but soon, within the next few days.”

“Your will, my queen.”  Acantha turns to the boy in the doorway.  “Mind if I take him for staff?”

“I want him for my personal staff,” says Penelope.  “You can have him after I’ve purchased him from Laertes.”

“And after you’ve emancipated him.  Mind if I take him for training _now?_ ”

“No.” Penelope smiles at the boy who ducks his head, returning a shy smile.  “Have you any family?”

He nods.

“Will you tell Acantha about them?” He hesitates.  “It’s okay, it doesn’t have to happen right now.  But when you’re ready, will you tell us?”

The boy nods and looks up.

“Lady Acantha,” he says, eyes utterly adoring.

“Oh, now that’s a promotion I’ve not had, lad, though the queen should think about it,” says Acantha, taking the child’s hand.  “But let’s go down to the kitchen.  There’s honey-bread…”

Acacia sighs as the door closes behind them.  “How did an active Guardian-child become a slave?”

“I don’t know,” says Penelope.  “But we will find out.”

“Yes,” says Acacia, suddenly alert.  “We should head into the city, _now._ ”

“Acacia?”

“Eurymachus has finished with Melantho and has asked for a meeting with Laertes.  You should not be here when they are done speaking.”  Acacia’s eyes seem to glow faintly with Apollo’s light.  “We must leave now.”

Penelope dons her veil as Acacia murmurs under her breath.  Two of her Guardians appear at the door, guards ready to escort them to town.

“My Queen,” says the elder of the two and she nods.

The trip down is uneventful, but Penelope can tell that Acacia remains distracted by whatever is being said in the palace.

“What do you want to do?” asks Acacia, clearly turning her attention away from the palace.

“We should go to the market,” says Penelope.  “Mingle with the people and buy an offering for the Gods.”

As they approach the agora a young man calls out to them.

“My queen, there’s something I think you should see.”

Penelope nods to her guards and follows him down toward the docks.  She can see a Mycenaean at the far end of the harbor, but the young man turns the other way.  He leads them to an elderly couple sitting just outside the harbor gate.  The man is clearly ill and his wife is begging the guards to allow them entry, so that they might seek succor at Ithaca’s temple.  One of them cuffs her, sending the woman to the ground, sobbing.

“What are you doing?” asks Penelope, outraged.  She kneels to help the woman stand.

“By orders of Lord Eurymachus, advisor of Laertes and King Odysseus, we’re not to allow such riffraff into the city.”

“By whose order?” Acacia’s voice is quiet.

“Lord Eurymachus,” says the guard.

“Lord Eurymachus does not rule Ithaca,” says Penelope as Acacia takes her place supporting the old woman.  “ _Odysseus_ is the king and that is not amongst his laws.”

The old man coughs, dark phlegm staining his worn chalmys and chiton, and Penelope helps him to his feet.

“My lady, we cannot let the diseased in by orders of—“

“What is Odysseus’ law,” Penelope demands.

“That a runner be sent to the temple,” says an older guard, coming down from the walls.  “So that they can arrange for a healer.  We’re to admit and aid all who wish to enter and do not pose an immediate threat.”

“This man is ill and you will send to the temple,” says Penelope.

“Lord Eurymachus –“

“Are you going to defy your _queen?_ ” Penelope’s voice swells with power and the gate guard falls back.

“My lady,” the guard protests.

“Deal with them,” she tells one of her own guardsmen.  “The King’s law is not to be abrogated without his will, or the crowning of a new King.  I want to know how long this has been happening.”

“Yes, my queen,” says the elder of the two guards.  “Will you want replacements?”

“New guards will come to you,” she says calmly.  “Now, we must get to the temple.”

“I’ve signaled a runner,” says the older guard.  “I didn’t know that the petition had finally gotten through to the King’s court.”

“There was no petition,” Penelope tells him, placing her shoulder beneath the old man’s, supporting him as they begin to head toward the temple.  “Or none that I’ve heard of.  Just –“

She stops, looking for the young man who had led them to the gate.

“—just a concerned citizen letting us know when we were in the marketplace.  It was never intended that Ithaca would so lack in hospitality.”

“No,” agrees the gate guard.  “I’ll be glad to go back to the old laws.”

They leave the gate and stagger up the hill.

“My lady, you needn’t do all of this for us.”

Penelope huffs an honest laugh, smiling into storm-grey eyes setting in cheeks lined with time and hard survival.

“Of course I do!  It is a poor host who is unwilling to care for their guests,” she adjusts her grip on the frail old man, stilling as he coughs again, body shuddering from the force. “Those gates are the doors to my home, my lady, even if I live up upon the hill.  It’s my privilege to care for those who seek the hospitality of my house.”

“Oh, I’m no lady,” protests the woman.  “We’re just commoners.”

Acacia laughs lightly.  “My lady, you are better mannered than many who call themselves noble.  And if my queen calls you a lady, then so you are, regardless of birth.”

“Lady Acacia,” Penelope tries – and fails – to keep her voice stern.  “No scolding!  They’ve had quite enough of that, I think.”

“Of course, my queen.  I meant no offense.”

As they approach the temple, the guards Penelope had sent into the city approach them.

“Please allow us to help,” says the young guard.

“Of course,” says Penelope.  “It is my honor.”

“No, my queen, it’s mine.”

~

They enter the temple and the couple is immediately whisked off by Cenon as Desma welcomes her with a wide smile.

“It took you long enough.”

“You and Acantha,” says Penelope, wry.  “I’m not sure that there’s a large enough sacrifice to be had.”

“Oh, Penelope,” Desma’s smile is fond.  “It’s not the sacrifice that matters, it’s the intent.”

“I felt him,” she says quietly, hugging herself.  “It’s the first time since Telemachus was little.  He was there.  There’s nothing good enough.  No thank you large enough for that moment.”

“I imagine you’ll come up with something big enough, my queen.”

They walk into the center of the sanctuary, where dozens wait and Penelope gasps.  The yearning that echoes off of them makes her light headed.  As one they drop to their knees and she wants to weep.  Some are painfully young, like the girl in the front row – perhaps fifteen and unveiled, scars marring her cheek and livid upon her back.

“My queen,” she says, tears of joy and relief running from her eyes.  “Command us.”

Penelope shudders, her hand rising to her mouth in an odd anguish.  These are her Guardians, those she was meant to guide – to protect, to command.  She has allowed herself to be distracted by the men within her home, by the handmaidens gifted to her by her father-in-law, and in the meantime her Guardians have suffered.

“My queen,” says Acacia, coming forward and standing before her with knowing eyes.  “Don’t cry, unless it’s for joy.  We’ve been waiting for you to claim us – some of us for all of our lives. What’s done is done, and you’ve no need to feel guilt.”

“Acacia,” says Penelope.

“We were born to follow you, my queen, born to follow where you lead.  You hid what you were, to keep the peace and protect your son, and we followed you into hiding – suppressing what we were, to help keep you safe.”

“And now that I choose to no longer hide, you come forward?”

“Of course,” says Acacia.  “You are ours to love and protect, even if you never step forward to claim us.  You are our _queen_ , the one who leads even those who might command are hearts.  Yours is the voice we listen for in the dawn; yours is the heartbeat that lulls us to sleep at night.  Your love nourishes the land and strengthens its people.  You are the light that guides us and brings us safely home.”

Penelope finds herself lifting her veil and once again walking among waiting Guardians.  She lets them take in her scent and the feel of her skin as she brushes them with gentle touches.  A low, gentle murmur bubbles up from her throat as she moves, a sound met with relieved sighs and a bedrock-deep sense of belonging.

“Protect our people,” she says quietly.  “Protect them from the men who think they have the right to usurp our king.  Odysseus lives – I have felt him.  I know that he is doing his best to come home.”

“My queen,” they whisper.

“If you need help – if you are in a place that prevents you from following my command, tell Acacia, and we will find a way to change your circumstances.”

Each nods their understanding, rising to their feet.  Acacia weaves her way among them, quietly speaking to each before returning to Penelope’s side.

“Thank you,” says Acacia.  “Rhete is a slave, like little Otos.  I will see what we can do to free her, or at least bring her into your household.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Penelope confesses.  “I have no idea what I think I’m doing.”

“Surviving,” says Acacia.  “Acantha’s right, you know.  They _would_ have killed you.  I expect them to try now, in fact.”

“How can you know that?”

“I hear things, on occasion.” The acerbic little jibe causes Penelope to giggle.

“My queen,” says Desma from the entry way.  “Cenon would like to speak to you about your guests.”

“Of course,” says Penelope, drawing her veil and following the elderly priestess.

They enter the small infirmary that the small temple holds as part of its shrine to Apollo and Asclepius.  The old man lies upon a small pallet, his wife tending to him with gentle hands.

“My lady,” says Cenon, wiping his hands with an old towel.  “I’m pleased to report that Jeroen here should be fine with some care.  He and Zenina are welcome to stay here, of course…”

“…but there are places better suited.”  Penelope smiles behind her veil.  “We’ll prepare rooms for them in the palace.  When they’re ready, I’ll send a litter down for him.”

“That would be a kindness.”  Cenon smiles at Zenina.  “It’s not that we would not have you here, but the clinic is open to all and it would be difficult for Jeroen to get much rest if you stay here.”

“Your majesty.”

“Please, Lady Zenina, I would be honored if you would accept my hospitality.  I look forward to hearing your tales and your insight.”

“You are far too kind for the likes of us,” says Zenina, her hand gentle upon her husband’s wrist as he dozes fitfully.

“None of that,” says Penelope, offering a small bow.  “It is very much my pleasure.  But for now, let your husband rest and I will prepare the way.”

“Guide-queen,” says Zenina, grey eyes warm and thoughtful.  “Thank you.”

Penelope considers Zenina for a moment and then removes her veil, folding the sheer cloth and tucking it firmly in the folds of her chiton. She ignores Cenon’s shocked gasp and offers Zenina a brilliant smile.

“I didn’t understand what that meant until today,” says Penelope.  “And I’ve hidden for quite long enough.  So, no, dear one, I am the one who owes you thanks, as I do to all who have waited upon my courage.”

The elderly woman grins, her face transforming into something so joyful it almost hurt to see.  Zenina turns to look down at her sleeping husband, caressing his hand with gentle fingers.

Penelope turns to Acacia.  “We still need to go into the marketplace.”

Acacia lifts her hands and removes her veil as well, tucking it away.

“I will follow wherever you lead me.”

~

They enter the agora to find a crowd massing near the market gates fear and need pulsing from them in equal measure.  Penelope comes to a halt, allowing her power to unfurl, blooming beneath the sun’s bright gaze.  Long ago, she had stood beneath Hera’s brooding gaze and sworn an oath to nurture her husband and all within his care.  Later, within the pleasured confines of her marriage bed, they had forged the bond between them, and she had pledged to guide him and all who claimed him.

Now she knows how badly she’s failed in that oath.  Penelope is not Helen, who for all of her god-born beauty can only hold the reins for one Guardian.  She is not Achilles, who had been able to command a hundred or more without strain. She is more.

She is a Guide- _queen_ , and meant to lead more than Guardians.  All are supposed to fall within her care.

Penelope walks into the gathering throng, unconcerned as Ithaca’s people – Odysseus’ people, _her_ people – brush small touches along her hands and arms, claiming her even as she lays claim to them.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs to them, in a voice too low for any but a Guardian to hear.  “I didn’t understand.  But I know now.  I’ll do better.  I swear to you, upon my bond, I will do better.”

The crowd thins as the city’s people brush up against her in silent fealty before melting away.  Even those who are not close enough to touch lay their minds open, offering up their submission to her guidance and will.

They are almost to the dock-side gates when Acacia gasps sharply.  Penelope turns to see a weathered beam of carven wood – a beam so familiar that her heart freezes even though she can feel the gentle pulse of Odysseus’ mind purring contentedly against hers.  It’s the broken and battered prow of Odysseus’ ship being carried by a dozen thin and broken slaves.

“Well, now, what is this?” comes an oily and overly familiar voice.  “Odysseus’ bride, bare-faced in the marketplace, like a whore trading her wares for a crust of bread.”

Beside her, Acacia stiffens.

Penelope stares directly into dark, mockery-filled eyes, and feels the strangest pang of regret and pity.

“Menelaus.”

~*~

“So, are you two going to tell me what’s going on at home?” Odysseus asks the dolphin and the otter that are frolicking like drunk, non-destructive Maenads beside the small boat that he and Hermes had constructed in a haze of – well, Odysseus isn’t quite sure what it was.  Hermes had muttered something peculiar about the difficulty of localized approaches to the speed of light and how it was a good thing that Apollo generally liked Odysseus and frankly adored Penelope because otherwise he wouldn’t be bending time like that.

Odysseus had frankly stopped listening after that, because once it had devolved into quarks and quantum principles he really just didn’t want to know what the young god was going on about.

Olesia surges up out of the water, practically cackling at him as Gelasius clings to her head, chortling gleefully.

“I’ll take that as a no then.  Do you at least know where we’re going?”  Because Hermes, the outrageously forthcoming _asshole_ had simply laughed at him when he’d asked which direction he was supposed to be pointing his sails.

“I told you – the journey itself is yours, I’m not actually allowed to tell you how to complete it.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Darling grandson, I dare you to say that directly to the Fates.”

“I’m irritated, not _stupid_ , thank you very much.”

“Nobody said you were!”  Hermes’ cheerful voice made Odysseus groan.  “Buck up!  At least you share your life-force with your Guide and Calypso’s interference in how you age affects you both.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, nothing!  Your ship is ready and I’ve got to go.  Messages to run, people to see, mischief to manage, that sort of thing.”

“But—“

“Bye!”

And so Odysseus was left with a sleek, weirdly-designed boat that had extremely peculiar rigging (Hermes had made sure he knew how to use it, and the very notion of being able to tack his sails to move against the wind was the most amazing thing ever, no matter what Hermes had muttered about ‘hyperspeed’ and ‘engines’ and ‘far reaches of the known universe’) and a pair of spirit-animals that were having more fun playing together than concentrating on getting him home.

It was a good thing that Odysseus was an accomplished sea-farer and that he was well versed in reading the sea and stars.

The days upon the sea melted in to one another as he sailed alone upon the waters.  Even when he encountered rough weather, it seemed to push him closer and closer to home.  Every day, Olesia raced alongside his boat, sometimes leading him through uncharted dangers.  The dolphin’s clicking laughter becoming as familiar as the warm weight of Gelasius across his shoulders.

But after that first touch, the first exchange of greeting, he had heard nothing from Penelope.  He had just felt the gentle tug that pointed him east-and-north.

Still, it’s a raging storm that forces him to ground two days short of Ithaca Odysseus curses the winds as he manages to guide his small ship into a sheltered cove he knows on this small, unnamed island, and then he thanks the gods that he is in waters he knows well.  He knows where he can anchor the boat and not worry that it will be carried away by the swell of the storm or the lowering of the tide.

As he stumbles his way up the shore, he heads toward the small shelter that someone – somewhen – had erected near the fresh-water spring that knowledgeable sea-men use to refresh their supplies.

Thunder claps, roaring in his ears as lightning strikes the sea, making it glow with a terrifying light.  Odysseus pulls upon his bond to Penelope, using it to center himself away from the flash and the crash of Zeus’ fury.  It is then that he hears an unexpected sound – a familiar rhythm, though it runs slower and stronger than he has ever heard it.

“Telemachus?” he shouts over the roar of the storm, following the slow, steady thud of a heartbeat he memorized the moment his son was born.

He was not prepared for the adder-swift swipe of a sword as he rounded a tree, and it is only the reflexes granted him as one of Apollo’s Guardians that allow him to dodge the bright-edged blade.

“I’ll not let you kill me,” the boy – no, man, for those eyes do not belong to a child or even a youth.  Betrayal shines bright in their depths and Odysseus can smell the rage and the death that saturate his son’s skin, now that he is close enough to get past the wind and the torrents of rain.

“I’m not here to kill you,” says Odysseus, speaking just loud enough to be heard.  “Telemachus, I would never harm you!”

“That’s what Menelaus said!” Telemachus hisses, striking out again and again.  “He welcomed me like a long lost son – told me stories of my father!  He said that he would come with me, to drive the men who want to claim my mother from our house.  And he left me here to die at the hands of his soldiers.”

Odysseus can feel the blaze of his son’s rage.  It is a beacon lit within him, flaring bright with a Guide’s demand for a Guardian to come to him.  With it he can feel the screaming _need_ that all Guardians had to yield to a power greater than their own.  It is only years of war and instinct that save him from Telemachus’ blade when that knowledge blossoms within him, shocking him into near immobility.

“Telemachus, stop.”  The command issues from him with all the force he holds as a Guardian-king.  “ _Listen_.  I’m not here to slay you.”

Telemachus hesitates, guide-rage fading underneath Guardian-need.

“You… you speak the truth.”  The sword lowers a fraction. Telemachus stares at him in the storm-darkened light and frowns, ever so slightly.  “I feel like I know you.  You… sound familiar.”

“I should hope so,” says Odysseus with a smile.  “You slept against my heart often enough after you were born.”

The sword clatters to the ground, nerveless fingers dropping to Telemachus’ side.

“Father?”  For a moment, his son looks like a small, lost boy confronted with the inconceivable.  The next, Odysseus in on the ground, clutching his belly and his face in unexpected agony.

“Okay,” Odysseus wheezes.  “It’s possible I deserved that.”

“You’ve been gone my entire fucking life,” says Telemachus, picking up his sword and sheathing it.  “All because you followed that utter _bastard_ , Menelaus of Mycenae, to Ilium.  There’s no _it’s possible_ about it.”

“Not really my fault,” says Odysseus, carefully working his jaw and prodding it with his fingers.  “Nice right hook.”

“ _Nice right hook?”_ Telemachus stares at him.  “For fuck’s sake.  Come along – there’s, like, this shack over by the spring.”

“I know,” says Odysseus, getting to his feet.  “You know, I’ve got some Phoenician soap in my pack, if you wanted to take advantage of the rain and get clean.  You kind of reek, son.”

“I – you – are you joking?”

“Not really,” says Odysseus.  “We didn’t often get the chance to bathe at Ilium and fortuitous rainfall can be really handy.  And you really do stink.  I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“For the love of the Gods.  Fine.  Give me some of the soap and we can both scrub down, because frankly you’re not the best smelling flower I’ve ever encountered either.”

“Why do you think I brought the soap with me after getting off of the boat?”

They both scrub down, letting the torrential downpour sluice them clean as they head toward the spring.  Odysseus is pleased to find that there’s sufficient dry wood in the shack that they can build a reasonable fire by which they can dry themselves and their clothes.

At some point someone added smooth wooden benches to the contents of the shack, and Odysseus is glad of it, since it means he doesn’t need to have splinters or gravel shoving themselves in his ass while his clothes dry.

Telemachus kneels by the fire, the dark hair and eyes that he inherited from his mother gleaming the firelight.  His son has her build, too, light and lithe – built for speed and deceptive power.  Odysseus has no doubt that Telemachus would be a challenge on the training sands and a terror on the battlefield.  His features are a pleasing mix of Penelope’s and his own – although the lucky boy had gotten that nose from Laertes, thin and aquiline, to compliment high cheekbones and a broad forehead.  Telemachus’ lips quirk up as he stares back, humor gleaming in those remarkable dark depths.

“Am I so strange you need to study me?”

Pain stabs through Odysseus, for all the years that he has missed.  When last he saw Telemachus, he’d been a baby-shaped lump, and before him is a strong, capable young man that Odysseus has had no hand in shaping.  He didn’t get to see that tiny, chubby baby grow.  He didn’t see the first steps, or show him how to grip his first sword.  He didn’t teach him his first forms, or string his first bow.  Telemachus is as much a mystery to him as the stars in the far-distant night, and the pain of it is suddenly overwhelming.

“Fuck,” says Telemachus, his humor fading.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” says Odysseus.  “It’s not your fault that I didn’t come home.”

Telemachus glowers at him.

“Why _didn’t_ you?” asks Telemachus.  “Menelaus and Agamemnon and the others returned to Hellas.  The merchant ships brought the news not long after they came back.  Yours was the only ship that didn’t return to port.”

“Well, that’s a long story…”

Thunder crashes outside, wind gusting through the weathered cracks of the shed.

“I’m going to guess that we have nothing but time.”

Odysseus grunts and then begins his tale of hubris and misfortune, ending with the last thing he remembers before waking on Calypso’s island.

“You’re an idiot,” says Telemachus.  “I mean, why did you tell the cyclops your name?  That was just dumb.”

“I honestly have no idea,” says Odysseus.  “Hermes told me that it was probably something I was fated to do.”

Telemachus ponders that in silence for a while.  “So, what you’re saying is that I should make sacrifices to the fates whenever I make offerings to the Olympians, in the hopes that they won’t make me do anything that idiotic?”

“It sounds like a good idea,” says Odysseus.  “Maybe if I’d thought of that _before_ Ilium, it wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“Or if you’d just listened to mother.” Telemachus smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  “We have to get home.”

“I’ve been trying to do that for twenty years now.

Telemachus shook his head.

“You don’t understand.  Menelaus meant for me to die here – I’ve left bodies scattered all over the island.  I’m sure he meant to pick up his men once he leaves Ithaca.”

“What is he planning to do there, if he’s not interested in helping your mother and my father kick out their unwanted guests?”

“He means to force her to marry – to bond to someone against her will.” Telemachus’ eyes grow distant.  “He hates her, father.  He hates her and sent people to Ithaca to hurt her.  The worst of her suitors are men he’s paid to visit the palace and deplete our wealth.  A few think that they can force her to marry them, but mostly they’re there to lay siege to her, the way he did to Ilium.  He doesn’t care if they succeed or not – he intends to take her as a prize.”

“He _what?”_

“He’s waging war, you see,” says Telemachus, glowing faintly as Apollo’s power touches him.  “He thinks it’s only fair that he take Penelope as a war-prize.  It’s a suitable punishment for her denying him guides and Guardians – and for you, for not forcing her to leave me in Ithaca and join you in the siege.”

“We’ll leave on the tide,” says Odysseus.  He concentrates, letting himself listen to the wind and the rain, letting himself feel the pressure of the air.  “The rain should stop in a couple of hours.  We’ll have time to get to the boat and get her ready for storm-ridden seas.

“Do you need a sword?” asks Telemachus.  “I’ve got a fine selection of Mycenaean weapons and armor.”

Odysseus stares at him for a moment and grins wildly.

“Oh, my boy.  I think that we can easily put those to good use.”

~

It takes them two days to reach Ithaca.  They sail into the port to find it full of ships and empty of activity.  He and Telemachus put on the armor and weapons of Menelaus’ guards and have no difficulty entering the city through the port gates.  It isn’t difficult at all to make out the sound of a large crowd gathered at the marketplace.

Puzzled, he and Telemachus make their way to the agora and Odysseus can hear his wife addressing the crowd, her voice serene although he can tell her emotions are in turmoil.

“People of Ithaca!  I know that we all begin to tire of these ridiculous games, but it is time for you to make the final choice.  These men claim that great Odysseus is dead, that my son Telemachus is missing – and that Ithaca needs a king for it cannot prosper with just a queen!”

Boos arise from the gathered citizens and Odysseus holds back a laugh.  He can feel how they are all connected to Penelope, how she has placed her claim upon them. She is a guide- _queen_ , and they would accept her reign alone over that of any man she might be married to – even him.

“So I have called all of you here to judge those who would claim my hand, for you – the people of Ithaca – are the ones who must live with that choice!  You have seen these men attempt to battle wits and battle skill against one another, and fail to show the prowess that one would expect from a king, so today I offer them one final test.”  He moves toward the front of the crowd and sees his bow – the great bow of Ithaca, enchanted by the aegis-bearer, Athene, to be undefeatable in the defense of Ithaca and its people – raised up high.  “The man that can string this bow and shoot it, destroying all of the targets with one arrow – that man will have my hand in marriage and the throne of Ithaca. Should more than one succeed that this task, the choice will be yours, dear Ithaca, of who you will see stand here as your king!”

The crowd _roars,_ for all of those who are of the island know that it is the bow of Ithaca’s Kings.  More than once this test has been used to determine the successor to the throne, and it has been known to place commoners ahead of the sons of kings.

Several of the men gathered at the front of the crowd shout in protest, including Menelaus, but Laertes stands tall and proud at Penelope’s side.  After all, when Ithaca’s throne had last come into contention, it had been Odysseus that had bent the bow and submitted himself to its will.  Even if his father thinks that he is dead, Laertes would never dispute the legitimacy of using this test.

 “You should join them,” comes a smooth voice beside him.  He looks down to see an old, grey-eyed woman.  Beside her stands a frail old man with eyes of a piercing blue and both are smiling in an oddly feral way.  “I can make sure they don’t notice you.  Your queen has been more than kind to me and my bondmate.”

He smiles.  “My lady.”

The old man chuffs a laugh.  “Don’t you go trying to charm her.”

“No sir, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The old woman brushes a finger across his wrist and he feels something settle upon him, as sheer and fine as veiling fabric.

“There, now.  Go and show them what it means to be a Guardian.” The image of the elderly couple fades and for a brief moment Odysseus sees them in all of their dazzling glory.  Storm-eyed Athene and light-crowned Apollo shimmering before him, before fading away to nothing.

He heard Telemachus swallow behind him.

“Did that just happen?”

He glances over.  “I’ve a fair certainty it did.  Do I look different now?”

“Yes.  You look… well, the way a man of your age should.  Before you looked like a man of no more than thirty, perhaps thirty-five summers.  Now you’re grey and have a mighty beard.”

“Calypso’s magic,” Odysseus murmurs.  “Keeping me young.”

“And beardless,” says Telemachus.  “It’s bad enough trying to justify why mother looks barely old enough to marry, the two of you together will be a nightmare.”

“Blame magic,” says Odysseus.  “That’s what I intend to do.”

Telemachus laughs, face hidden behind his borrowed helmet. They make their way into the line of suitors, taking places at the very end.  Despite the fact that this competition, by its nature and history, is open to all, it’s obvious to Odysseus that none of the citizens of Ithaca have chosen to join in.

They watch as suitor after suitor attempts to string the bow, each contorting this way and that in the attempt to bend it.

“What the hell is this!” Eurymachus shouts, seeing the two of them bringing up the rear of the line. Odysseus recognizes the simpering, backstabbing sycophant from before he went to war and sneers. “This isn’t a contest for old men and striplings!”

“It’s a contest for any who think they can win it,” says Penelope, her eyes dancing.  She looks at him and their bond flares open, warmth and strength flooding in with her relief and joy.  Odysseus has no idea why his wife has chosen to go completely unveiled in public, but Telemachus is right – she seems barely changed from the woman who walked away from her father and into his arms.  He can feel her amusement at that thought – twenty years is enough to change anyone – but he finds himself grateful that not only can he hear her voice and scent her upon the air, but her eyes and smile are open for anyone to see.

“Fine then, let the boy try, for all the good it will do him.”

One of the other suitors grunts and Telemachus takes the bow, bending it with only the smallest amount of effort.  He takes an arrow and with casual ease shatters all but one target in a single shot.

“Damn,” he mutters, unstringing the bow and handing it to Odysseus.  “Slightly off-center.”

The crowd gasps in awe while the suitors gape in surprise.  Telemachus removes his helmet, and rubs his hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, mother.  I guess I’m not quite ready yet.”

Penelope chokes on a laugh, pulling him to her as the targets are replaced.  “I doubt that any would contest your right to the throne, my Telemachus, if the final competitor is unable to make the shot.”

Odysseus sends a pulse of amusement down the bond as he strings the bow.  He sets an arrow to the string and takes the shot without even looking to see if the targets shatter – for his next shot takes the largest – and clearly angriest – of the suitors in the throat.

It darkest depths of Tartarus brought to earth. Menelaus’ troops, men who had been spread throughout the crowd draw their weapons, clearly intending to use them against the civilian crowd when Penelope speaks, her voice rolling through the market square.

“Kill only those who raise arms against us, bring the remaining guilty to me.”

Guide-rage _sparks,_ fueled by Penelope’s command, and as one most of the crowd simply falls to the ground, leaving only Menelaus’ troops and the Guardians of Ithaca standing.  It takes only a moment for him to take it in before he pulls the last arrow from the provided quiver and sends it through Menelaus’ knee.

“Good afternoon, wife!” he calls as he draws his blade.

“What’s good about it?” she calls back, grinning as he engages Eurymachus, the slimy _prick_.

“Well, I’m home!”

“It took you long enough!” her voice carries over the square and he takes Eurymachus’ head with an almost insulting ease.

It’s a bloodbath.  In the end a few of Menelaus’ troops throw down their swords when they realize that it’s to be a slaughter – but not one of their making. They’re dragged to the front of the market square and are soon joined by group of servants and courtiers that are herded down the hill by a handful of blood-stained Guardians.

Penelope stands amidst the blood and carnage and Odysseus approaches her, feeling both her elation and her grief.

“What will you do?” he asks.  She looks up at him and sighs.

“Well, I thought I might introduce Ithaca to its king,” she says a bit sardonically.

He nods.  “And for the rest?”

“Open court.”  She does not look behind her, where Laertes lies in a spreading pool of blood.  Acacia’s blades had been quick when the old man had attacked them under the cover of the battle.  “Let justice be dealt justly.”

Odysseus does, eyes shrouding with grief.

“My father,” he says softly.

“Odysseus –”

“No.  I saw.  Your Guardian- _protos_ is an impressive young woman, I only wish she hadn’t had to kill.”

“She’s a Guardian, husband,” says Penelope. “She was born with a blade and shield in hand.”

“Born to follow,” says Odysseus, watching the young woman in question secure the prisoners, including Menelaus.  He brushes Penelope’s cheek, looking down at her.  “Born to lead.”

She leans into his touch, uncaring of the blood.  “You gave them to me.”

“I did,” he says.  “I’m glad of it.”

“I messed up,” she tells him, her eyes closing.  “I didn’t understand what it meant, you know.  When you gave yourself and all that was yours into my keeping.  I didn’t get it.”

“One wouldn’t know it,” he says.  He can hear his people, all of those he was born to protect moving through the city, rendering aid to one another.  He can feel his wife’s subtle command, woven into the ground and air.  _Love. Honor. Protect. Honesty. Patience. Acceptance._   Every person tied to her, common or noble, guide, Guardian, or null – dwelt within the nexus of those instructions.  They would drive every person in Ithaca until Penelope changed them, withdrew, or died.  “Command me.”

“Love me?” she asks.  “Even when I hand you a massacre that needs to be cleaned up?”

“I’ll love you until the world ends.  I’m pretty sure I’ll still love you after.”

Penelope leans up, and her lips are warm and soft – everything he remembers, even after twenty years away.

“Hey,” calls Telemachus.  “I know that you guys have been apart for my whole life and all, but Lady Acacia says that we need to do something with the assholes that Acantha brought down from the Palace and frankly watching Menelaus scream and flail with an arrow in the knee, is personally entertaining to me, it’s beginning to grate on everyone’s nerves.”

They break apart, laughing softly.

“Welcome home, Odysseus.”

“It’s good to be back,” he says, tucking her against his side.  “It’s good to be home.”


End file.
